When the death sentence was issued against him in 1989, there were also those who spoke out against him, telling him that he had lacked sensitivity towards Islamic culture. The suggestion for Meloni: “Be less childish. Politicians should get a little thicker skin.”
Words are words. A court is a court. A knife is a knife. When Salman Rushdie arrives at the Turin Book Fair, with his body having narrowly survived an Islamist attack, the reality of the writer targeted by political and ideological violence appears in his physical cruelty: his right eye out of order and hidden by a dark lens on the frame of his glasses, his hand pierced through and through by a blade, the scar visible on his cheek and those hidden under his dark jacket.
They ask him if he has heard of the dispute between his friend Roberto Saviano and the Prime Minister Giorgia Meloni, defined as a “bastard” by Saviano, who for this was sentenced to pay a thousand euros. He replies: “Yes, I heard about it.” Perhaps he hadn’t heard of Luciano Canfora, an antiques expert who happened to say that Giorgia Meloni is a “Nazi at heart” and for this he was sued by the head of government. And perhaps he hadn’t even heard of Antonio Scurati and his monologue canceled by Rai. They therefore make him aware of the dispute between Italian intellectuals and political power, with the aim of associating apples and pears, he who has lived since 1989 under the death sentence of Ayatollah Khomeini and two Italian writers brought before a judge who responds to the law of a state of law, plus one censored by public television, but not banned from national discussion, God forbid, and he says that “politicians should get a little tougher skin, because in addition to having great power they also have a lot of authority. So it is normal for someone among the population to talk about it directly, perhaps badly, even using a bad word like the one Roberto used.” And then here’s the suggestion for Meloni: “I would advise her to be less childish and to grow up”.
Rushdie is here in Turin to talk about his book, “Coltello. Meditations after an attempted assassination” (Mondadori), 234 pages without a line in which he puts himself in the role of the victim. Indeed, he says: “When they drag you into a fight, you are forced to react. And this book is my revenge, my stab at the man who attacked me.” He never mentions him by name and surname. He just calls it: “A.” “Because he has already had his thirty seconds of fame and now he can return to his anonymity”. He talks about the attack, rehabilitation, love, happiness, in this shamelessly optimistic book, in which he hopes that the time will come when his novel cursed by the Islamist fatwa – The Satanic Verses – will be read simply as a work of fantasy, no longer like a scandalous book, a literary case. Rushdie is a writer who would like to just write. He was forced by circumstances to embody freedom of expression, to defend it and fight for it. The level of security surrounding it is impressive. They check you from head to toe before entering the same place as him. Roberto Saviano also has an escort, of course. But there is a difference between a writer threatened by a mafia organization and a writer condemned to death by a political and religious head of state, in the name of a monotheistic religion, with a license to kill given to any member of the Islamic community, the so-called umma, especially after the execution. Giorgia Meloni would do well to grow up, I agree. But will the anti-writers ever become adults?
When the death sentence was handed down to Rushdie in 1989, there were those who immediately came to his defense. Christopher Hitchens, Susan Sontag, Umberto Eco. But there were also those who took the other side, who told him that he had lacked sensitivity towards Islamic culture. Il Foglio reminds Rushdie of this, asking him if those intellectuals who did not defend him have legitimized the target they drew around his face (copyright Antonio Scurati). He replies: “For me it was particularly painful to suffer non-Islamic attacks. It was a shock because they were all people I knew and considered my friends. Luckily I’m a person who leaves things behind. I don’t sit there and brood. But I remember their names from first to last.” However, many have forgotten them. John Le Carré said: “It is my opinion that Rushdie has nothing to prove except his callousness.” Historian Hugh Trevor-Roper declared: “I would not shed a tear if some Muslim was waiting for him in a dark corner to teach him good manners.” Cat Stevens, who became a Muslim under the name Yusuf, went even further: “I would be willing to call the death squads if I knew where that blasphemer was.” Words are words. A knife is a knife. In certain special circumstances the distance between the two becomes dangerously narrow. But you have to be very good at understanding when.
Words are words. A court is a court. A knife is a knife. When Salman Rushdie arrives at the Turin Book Fair, with his body having narrowly survived an Islamist attack, the reality of the writer targeted by political and ideological violence appears in his physical cruelty: his right eye out of order and hidden by a dark lens on the frame of his glasses, his hand pierced through and through by a blade, the scar visible on his cheek and those hidden under his dark jacket.
They ask him if he has heard of the dispute between his friend Roberto Saviano and the Prime Minister Giorgia Meloni, defined as a “bastard” by Saviano, who for this was sentenced to pay a thousand euros. He replies: “Yes, I heard about it.” Perhaps he hadn’t heard of Luciano Canfora, an antiques expert who happened to say that Giorgia Meloni is a “Nazi at heart” and for this he was sued by the head of government. And perhaps he hadn’t even heard of Antonio Scurati and his monologue canceled by Rai. They therefore make him aware of the dispute between Italian intellectuals and political power, with the aim of associating apples and pears, he who has lived since 1989 under the death sentence of Ayatollah Khomeini and two Italian writers brought before a judge who responds to the law of a state of law, plus one censored by public television, but not banned from national discussion, God forbid, and he says that “politicians should get a little tougher skin, because in addition to having great power they also have a lot of authority. So it is normal for someone among the population to talk about it directly, perhaps badly, even using a bad word like the one Roberto used.” And then here’s the suggestion for Meloni: “I would advise her to be less childish and to grow up”.
Rushdie is here in Turin to talk about his book, “Coltello. Meditations after an attempted assassination” (Mondadori), 234 pages without a line in which he puts himself in the role of the victim. Indeed, he says: “When they drag you into a fight, you are forced to react. And this book is my revenge, my stab at the man who attacked me.” He never mentions him by name and surname. He just calls it: “A.” “Because he has already had his thirty seconds of fame and now he can return to his anonymity”. He talks about the attack, rehabilitation, love, happiness, in this shamelessly optimistic book, in which he hopes that the time will come when his novel cursed by the Islamist fatwa – The Satanic Verses – will be read simply as a work of fantasy, no longer like a scandalous book, a literary case. Rushdie is a writer who would like to just write. He was forced by circumstances to embody freedom of expression, to defend it and fight for it. The level of security surrounding it is impressive. They check you from head to toe before entering the same place as him. Roberto Saviano also has an escort, of course. But there is a difference between a writer threatened by a mafia organization and a writer condemned to death by a political and religious head of state, in the name of a monotheistic religion, with a license to kill given to any member of the Islamic community, the so-called umma, especially after the execution. Giorgia Meloni would do well to grow up, I agree. But will the anti-writers ever become adults?
When the death sentence was handed down to Rushdie in 1989, there were those who immediately came to his defense. Christopher Hitchens, Susan Sontag, Umberto Eco. But there were also those who took the other side, who told him that he had lacked sensitivity towards Islamic culture. Il Foglio reminds Rushdie of this, asking him if those intellectuals who did not defend him have legitimized the target they drew around his face (copyright Antonio Scurati). He replies: “For me it was particularly painful to suffer non-Islamic attacks. It was a shock because they were all people I knew and considered my friends. Luckily I’m a person who leaves things behind. I don’t sit there and brood. But I remember their names from first to last.” However, many have forgotten them. John Le Carré said: “It is my opinion that Rushdie has nothing to prove except his callousness.” Historian Hugh Trevor-Roper declared: “I would not shed a tear if some Muslim was waiting for him in a dark corner to teach him good manners.” Cat Stevens, who became a Muslim under the name Yusuf, went even further: “I would be willing to call the death squads if I knew where that blasphemer was.” Words are words. A knife is a knife. In certain special circumstances the distance between the two becomes dangerously narrow. But you have to be very good at understanding when.
